


Milk Carton Mugshot Baby

by big_slug



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe, Child Abuse, F/M, Human Trafficking, M/M, Rape, Torture, Underage Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-09-01 00:02:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20248834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/big_slug/pseuds/big_slug
Summary: The first thing Manuel tells every new boy is that no one will look for them. That everyone thinks they are dead.AU: Will was abducted in November of 1983.





	Milk Carton Mugshot Baby

**Author's Note:**

> People, I'm so drunk. Like, I can't even stand up straight. I'm gonna regret posting this tomorrow. It's the darkest most fucked up shit I've ever done, and it doesn't even have a lot to do with Stranger Things anymore.  
I liked Billy Talent during my angsty teenage years.

_Standing in the rain_  
_Milk carton mugshot baby_  
_Missing since 1983_

Some of the men are worse than others. All of them have money; The money they need to afford whatever Manuel is charging them. Will thinks it must be a lot, but he has no way of knowing. There is a rumor among the boys that years ago one of them dared to ask. They don‘t talk about what happened to him. Never. All they talk about is suits. Which ones are the worst.

American power suits. Broad, padded shoulders on broad, successful men. Men with families. Fat. Some old enough to have grandchildren, for God‘s sake. Very few of them under forty. Disgusting comb-over haircuts, skin shining slick from underneath. White Cadillac Fleetwoods or Imperials with big engines that can be heard from the basement quarters when they leave at three in the morning. Gin tonic, scotch with soda, Cuba Libre at the bar, sweat and sick in the dimly lit back rooms. Fat, greasy hands. Repulsive. They reek when they‘re too far gone. Will hates it.

Pinstripes are worse. Perfectly tailored Italian suits on slim men who have little to hide. Slender ties under midnight-blue jackets and vests, red accents here and there. Most of them old as well, sometimes with finely trimmed mustaches, fashionable eyeglasses and full hair. Graying but vain enough to use black dye. Alfa Romeo, Lancia, quiet and smooth. They are never rough in the beginning after only a few glasses of wine or brandy and a Cuban cigar. Gentle voices, feigned honesty and interest. Until they lose control without actually losing control. Sadists. They pay more, Will thinks, as they often incapacitate their victims. Permanently? Well, rarely. Manuel pays attention. To both sides. Will is afraid.

Cheap are best. Too short second-hand jackets over too long shirts, ties a mess under clean-shaven faces. Those who have to make ends meet. A few beers, shy, fresh out of college at the bottom of a long ladder, looking for something new. The receiving end has to provide confidence for two, act seductively sweet and innocent, dressed in white nightgowns. Where pinstripes get two hours, though, these get twenty minutes. Lower middle class Fords carry them back to their apartments, and there is little doubt that most of them will become either pinstripes or power suits. Perhaps success just does that to people. Will forgets them once the night is done.

Will forgets a lot - he barely remembers a life before. Or he does but wills himself to forget. It is better that way. Better when he closes his eyes to go somewhere else. Better when he has to ignore the stench and take what he is given. Better when all he can see is stained red velvet, hands pinned behind his back, gasping for air. It would make him tear up, and most of the men don‘t like that. _‚What, am I not taking care of you?‘ _As if they seriously believe he could enjoy this.

Instead, Will thinks of pleasant moments. About eight at night; The bath, steaming hot and smelling of lavender. Jenna as she shaves him, smooths a hand through his hair, paints gentle circles on his chest and back with a soft sponge and kisses his forehead when he has to cry because he knows what is going to come. Just as his mother would do, but these thoughts are reserved for when he absolutely cannot repress them, which is seldom; At four in the morning, pinstripes imprinted on his retina, dried blood in places where there should be none.

‚_What‘s wrong, little one?‘_ the voice in his head then croons. _‚This is a delicacy. C‘mon, open up. You wanna be good for daddy, don‘t you?‘_

What does that even mean? Does _‚being good‘ _mean bearing it all without a tear? Forced to watch and feel white skin being blemished by smoldering tobacco, by needles and leather straps? Or does it just mean to fail at holding back the tears? To break not instantly, but slowly?

To the men it does, but it‘s actually Manuel Will has to be good for. The things the clean, white-suited man can do to a boy are... He is usually so gentle, but his affection lacks honesty and is far from unconditional. Those who run never get far. And Manuel makes sure the others witness every gruesome detail so they never forget what they are. It‘s a way of protecting his investment.

If there is one thing the boys never do, it‘s complain about Manuel. Manuel, who provides them with shelter, food, safety from customers who might go too far. They only really come to appreciate it after they have gone through their training, maybe because he declares training done when they stop asking him to let them go and do as they are told. Some need more time than others. Some need to go back into the room for a second time. Will did, and when he got out after ten years, unable to walk and weighing fifteen pounds less than before, the others told him it had only been two weeks.

There is no light in there, except for when Manuel visits. No windows, no mattress, no clothes, no warmth. No mom. Just a moldy blanket, a bucket without a lid that gets emptied once it‘s full, and concrete behind an iron door. Food every other day. _‚Will you do as you‘re told?‘ - Silence - Crack! - A cry - The taste of copper - ‚Will you do as you‘re told?‘ - ‚Yes.‘ - ‚I don‘t believe you.‘_

Manuel never believes the first _Yes_. Or the second one. He believes when the boys don‘t gag anymore. When they thank him for _everything _he gives them, not just the good bits. When they learn to use their tongues the way the men enjoy it and when they need minimal stretching. _‚Who is your daddy?‘ - ‚You...‘ - ‚And who‘s taking care of you?‘ - ‚You‘re taking care of me.‘ - ‚Who can‘t you live without?‘ - Quiet sobs - A disappointed sigh - Darkness_

Of course, Manuel can have any of his boys whenever he wants them; He likes Will a lot. _‚Can you come into my office before work tonight?‘_ he asks once or twice a week. It‘s not really a question and it‘s always before work. Because Will usually stinks after work and because he turns too passive for Manuel‘s taste in the early morning hours.

Most of these nights, the pain is too much and Will slips into an absent state of mind, an out-of-body experience that lasts for hours and lets him serve the men on autopilot like he has been raised for it. Heavenly, blissful nights when he doesn‘t have to feel a thing, when he knows sleep will be black and dreamless and deep. Sometimes, he just approaches Manuel without being asked. Just so he doesn‘t have to dream of the night, of the woods and the black van with the men inside. The name of the town escapes him sometimes. Hawkins, wasn‘t it? A world away from here.

Manuel says New York is better than Atlantic City, where he grew up. Wealthy people, discrete people, men who know how to hold their tongues. _‚Fewer bastards who‘d get drunk and spill their beans to bums on the sidewalk...‘ _he likes to chuckle when he is boasting with his success again, showing off his golden rings that have left so many marks on Will‘s body. _Claimed. Owned. _

He does it casually. Punishment is business. _‚If I were to get furious every time I have to relieve you boys of one of your fingers, I‘d suffered a heart attack long ago.‘ _The left pinkie is the first warning. The right pinkie is the second warning. There is no third warning. But it‘s calm cruelty. Will has only seen Manuel in a rage once, and not because of a boy. It happened during the 1985 New Year‘s Extravaganza and it had to be Pinstripes for poor Gino; The way that man tore him up so bad he had to wear diapers from then on set Manuel off. The man was dealt with, of course. Enough money to buy from Manuel, not enough to hide from Manuel. No one hides from Manuel. Will is still glad it wasn‘t him, but at the same time feels sorry for Gino, who just stopped eating after a little while and then stopped breathing two weeks later.

Will was with him whenever he could, sleeping in his bed during the last couple of days, and even got Gino‘s permission to take his worn-white plush bunny. While the others look at him with contempt because of it, Will keeps it safe like a treasure. Hugs it at night pretending it‘s the one his brother gave to him for his third birthday. Or was it a teddy bear?

Jenna keeps it safe for him when he is working. She makes the beds, does the laundry, cooks for the boys all while keeping Will‘s prized possession in her apron. Manuel can joke about her being a kangaroo all he wants, Jenna never cares. Will loves her. They all do, because Jenna is everything that is good in this world and she is right here with them. And though it‘s selfish and an overall ugly thought, Will wants to believe he is her favorite. Because he is the first one she comes to after work is over. She unlocks his door, crawls into his bed. And it always feels special, like it means something. Her whispering sweet nothings, doing her job with more effort than she would have to. She wouldn‘t have to kiss him, or even slide under the blanket, but she does. So that must mean she cares. After, she gently slides a warm washcloth under his nightgown, cleaning him with it.

Most nights, Will can fall asleep after. Not even with the feeling that he should be somewhere else, with different people in a different part of the world. He has food, doesn‘t he? A roof over his head, a warm bath a day, and a friend. A soft bed in a safe little room. Things aren‘t that bad, except for the occasional pinstripe-customer. But he figures it would seem bad to an outsider, so maybe it‘s a blessing; The first thing Manuel tells every new boy is that no one will look for them. That everyone thinks they are dead. They deserve closure, Will thinks. All of them. And since Manuel has only so many rooms, and boys grow so fast, a few years from now they won‘t even believe a lie anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Hate me pls.


End file.
